Gordon Dahlquist - The Dark Volume

She glanced into a mirror on the wall, its heavy gold frame carved with impossibly lush peonies, the blossoms blown open in a way that made Miss Temple uncomfortable. But what caused her to stop before the glass and rise to her toes was the pallor of her face. There had been mirrors in Lydia's chamber, and she had naturally glanced at her own body as she bathed—the shape of her legs, the appearance of her bosom, the tightly curled hair between her legs when it was wet and soaped—but this was a way of looking and not seeing. Miss Temple poked a finger into the skin below her eye and took it away—there was a brief impression of pink where the fingertip had been, but it faded at once, leaving her complexion waxy and drawn. She bared her teeth and was distressed to see the edges of her gums were red as the flesh of a fresh-cut strawberry.

MISS TEMPLE peeked over the railing of the main staircase, her newly set curls hanging over her face, and saw a passing line of bright red uniforms far below. There had been no soldiers accompanying their coach, which meant others had arrived. Did this mean Colonel Aspiche? She could not descend to the foyer if there was anyone who might recognize her. She quickly darted down one flight, just to the next landing. She would cut along this hallway, stay out of sight, and find a servant's staircase to the ground. But when Miss Temple hurried around the first corner she nearly collided with a Captain of Dragoons.

He was fair-haired with an elegantly curled moustache and side whiskers. It was the officer she'd seen in the corridor of Stäelmaere House, sick and tottering after his audience with the Duke. Behind him in a line, the oldest holding hands with the Captain, were three primly dressed children.

“Good afternoon,” said Miss Temple, bobbing in a tardy sketch of a curtsey.

“Closer to evening, I think,” replied the Captain. His voice was soft but sharp, like a talking fox in a tale.

“And who are all of you?” asked Miss Temple (who did not appreciate foxes), smiling past the officer at the three children. She did not especially appreciate children either, but could be kind to them when they were silent. All three watched her with wide, solemn eyes.

“I am Charles,” said the middle child, a ginger-haired boy in a brushed black-velvet suit. He sniffed. “Master Charles Trapping.”

“Hello, Charles.” Miss Temple loathed the boy at once.

“I am Francesca,” said the oldest, a girl with hair near the color of Miss Temple's own. Her chin was small and her eyes too round, but her dress was a shade of lilac Miss Temple very much approved of. The girl's voice was low, as if she was not at all confident of her surroundings but as the oldest needed to assert precedence over her brash younger brother. Francesca turned to the third, a boy of perhaps three years, also in a velvet suit, holding in one hand the remains of a chocolate biscuit. “That is Ronald.”

“Hello, Ronald.”

Ronald looked at his feet in silence.

“Who are you?” demanded Charles.

Miss Temple smiled. “I am a dear friend of Miss Lydia Vandaariff, whose house you are in. She has journeyed to Macklenburg to be married.”

“Did she forget something?” Charles pointed to her case.

“She did not,” replied Miss Temple. “ I did.”

“Don't you have servants to fetch it for you?”

Miss Temple smiled icily, wanting to strike him. “One does not simply send servants to Harschmort House. We had been celebrating Lydia's engagement—”

“My mother has a case just like that,” said Francesca. “For her silver bracelets.”

“Is that full of silver bracelets?” the officer asked Miss Temple. His gaze gently ranged across her body. He negligently met her eyes and smiled, but the smile seemed unconnected to his thoughts.

“What I forgot,” Miss Temple replied with a winning smile, “was a set of combs and brushes. As a treat , Lydia's closest friends all prepared her for the gala evening . But now I need them back again.”

“Haven't you a maid?” asked Charles.

“I have as many maids as I like,” snapped Miss Temple. “But one is accustomed to a particular degree of bristle . I'm sure your sister understands.” She smiled at Francesca, but the girl was rubbing her eye.

“When Maria brushes Ronald's hair it makes him cry,” announced Charles.

Ronald said nothing, but looked at Miss Temple with hopeless little eyes.

“And what brings all of you to Harschmort?” Miss Temple asked brightly.

“I don't believe I heard your name,” stated the officer.

“I am Miss Stearne.” Miss Temple raised her eyebrow to let him know she held it to be an impertinent question. “Miss Isobel Stearne.”

“David Tackham, Captain of Dragoons.” The officer clicked his heels with another wry smile. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Stearne. Are you related to Caroline Stearne?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Caroline Stearne. Also an intimate of Miss Vandaariff, I believe.”

“We are cousins,” said Miss Temple tartly. “Caroline is presently traveling with Miss Vandaariff, as they are especially close to one another. Do you know her? She did not mention you.”

“I know of her only. A handsome woman, I am told.”

Tackham's blue eyes were both lovely and absent. Miss Temple looked at them for just a touch too long and they began to appear inhuman—blue eyes so often did that, Miss Temple felt.

“Were you off to anywhere in particular, Miss Stearne?” he asked.

Miss Temple did not reply, bending forward to Francesca with a smile.

“Where is your mother, darling?”

“I do not know,” answered the girl, her lip quivering.

MISS TEMPLE turned at a sound on the main stairs. A young man in a black coat with a yellow waxed moustache and blue eyes approached them, a sheaf of papers under one arm. In his Ministry topcoat, he could have been a lesser cousin of Roger Bascombe, but as he came nearer Miss Temple saw the pallor of his skin, and the bloodied nails on the hand that held the white papers.

“There you are.” He noted Miss Temple's presence with an irritated frown. “Who is this?”

“I am Miss Stearne.”

“What is she doing here?” the man asked Tackham.

“I am a friend of Lydia Vandaariff,” Miss Temple answered him. “What are you doing so freely in my friend's house?”

“This is Miss Stearne.” Captain Tackham smiled.

The Ministry man ignored her. “You are well behind schedule, Captain. There is no time—”

“If there's so little time, where in hell have you been?” Tackham snapped.

The other man's eyes shot wide at such language in front of the children, but he erupted in a wicked sneeze, and then two more in rapid succession, even as he shifted the papers to his other arm and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. He finally wiped his nose but not before they had all seen the first smear of blood on the yellow waxed hair on his upper lip.

“I'll not have this impertinence. Mr. Phelps is waiting with the Duke.”

“Will you join us?” Captain Tackham asked Miss Temple.

“Yes, please,” said Francesca in a small voice.

“Of course she will not,” snapped the man from the Ministry.

“She has a case of hairbrushes,” announced Charles, as if this were especially significant. The Ministry man ignored him and folded his handkerchief away.

“Captain Tackham! The Duke!”

“What is your name?” Miss Temple asked the man.

“He is Mr. Harcourt,” replied Tackham.

“Mr. Harcourt has not answered my question about what he is doing with another man's children in my good friend's house.”